The Wilderness Road

by James Reasoner

  The Wilderness Road

  A Frontier Novel By

  James Reasoner

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues arc products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1996 by James Reasoner and L.J. Washburn

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address The Book Place, P.O. Box 931, Azle, TX 76098 bookplc@flash.net

  Other EBooks By James Reasoner

  THE HUNTED

  COSSACK THREE PONIES

  UNDER OUTLAW FLAGS

  REDEMPTION: KANSAS

  RANCHO DIABLO:HANGROPE LAW as by Colby Jackson

  DRAW: THE GREATEST GUNFIGHTS OF THE AMERICAN WEST

  TEXAS WIND

  DIAMONDBACK

  DUST DEVILS

  DEATH HEAD CROSSING

  For Randal Greenwood

  Chapter 1

  The sky was the color of a flintlock's barrel, a hard gray that held no mercy. Davis Hallam hunched his shoulders forward and leaned into the cold wind as he rode toward his farm. Today the Shenandoah, usually a peaceful, pretty stream as it wound through this broad valley, was as flat and hard as the sky. Davis's horse plodded along the road that followed the banks of the river.

  He had been down to the Bristow place. William Bristow had fallen out of his hayloft the week before and broken his leg, and the man had a wife and six little ones to look after.

  Even now, in the dead of winter, there was plenty of work to be done around a farm. Until Bristow's leg healed, Davis and some of the other neighbors were looking after the place for him. They all knew Bristow would have done as much for any of them. Here on the frontier, a man couldn't make it without good neighbors.

  But that didn't mean it was easy. Davis was tired from doing his own work. When he got back to his farm, he had a plow to repair, and the chore would probably take him all afternoon.

  The lane went around another bend and the farm came into sight. Davis felt something inside him like the glow from a fireplace far into the night when the wood had burned down to embers and still gives off heat and light but not much of either one. There had been a time when the fire in him burned brighter, but not for quite a while.

  Not since Andrew had come.

  The cabin was made of logs and chinked with mud so that it was tight against the wind. A stone chimney rose at one end. A large barn, also of logs, was behind the cabin. Pole fences formed pens for the cows, the hogs, and the mules. The chickens wandered loose.

  Davis had built a stone fence along the land, choosing each rock carefully and stacking them precisely. Some of them had weighed so much that he had trouble lifting them alone, but he enjoyed the struggle, the way the sweat popped out in beads on his forehead, the familiar ache in his arms and shoulders, the tremble of combined weariness and satisfaction when he stepped back and looked at how much he had gotten done each day. The fence had taken a long time, but he knew every rock in it.

  On the other side of the fence was a large pasture where the cows and mules grazed in the summer, with the cabin and barn at the far end of the pasture and the plowed fields beyond the buildings. As Davis rode closer he saw the three children playing in the pasture.

  Mary, the oldest at ten, with her mother's bright fair hair and good looks, was telling her sister and brother what to do, as usual. Laurel was eight, darker, more slender, faster than Mary but for the most part unwilling to go against what the older girl said. The baby of the family was Theodore, though as a five-year-old he no longer tolerated being called a baby. He had his father's thick brown hair and already showed signs of having inherited Davis's rangy build.

  Davis frowned. The children shouldn't have been outside. It was January, after all, in the Year of Our Lord 1790. Children didn't play outside during the winter.

  They saw him coming and ran to meet him, each of them leaping onto the stone fence and dashing along it with the careless, sure-footed grace of the young and immortal. Theodore shouted, "Pa!" while Laurel greeted him with cries of "Papa!" Mary called a more dignified, "Hello, Father."

  Davis reined his horse to a stop and said, "What are the three of you doing out here? That wind's got ice in it."

  "Mother sent us out to play," Mary said. "She said the fresh air would be good for us, and for us to watch for you and sing out when we saw you coming."

  Davis nodded, somewhere in his head understanding more than he really wanted to. At least the children were wearing their coats, and the thick garments kept them warm. Their cheeks were red from the wind, but they weren't shivering.

  He looked past them. A big chestnut gelding, a much finer horse than the ewe-necked roan he was riding, was tied to the post in front of the cabin. He recognized the horse. It belonged to his half-brother Andrew Paxton.

  Davis wasn't surprised that Andrew was here. Andrew had a way of showing up any time Davis had to leave the farm for very long.

  Davis nudged the roan through the gap he had left in the fence. "You children go on inside. I'll be there as soon as I've tended to the horse." He paused, then added, "Sing out again before you get there, so your mother will know you're coming."

  "Sure, Pa," Theodore said as he jumped down from the fence. Laurel followed him. Only Mary hesitated.

  "How's Mr. Bristow's leg?" she asked.

  "Getting better," Davis said. "I shouldn't have to help out much more."

  "Good," Mary said, and then she jumped down from the fence and ran after her sister and brother. Theodore was already hollering toward the cabin.

  Davis rode through the pasture and circled around the cabin and went to the barn. He dismounted, opened one of the double doors, and led the horse inside.

  The other animals were there, warming the place with the heat that came from their bodies, and it felt good to be out of the wind. An odor of earth and straw and manure, not that unpleasant once a man got used to it, filled the barn. Davis unsaddled the roan and put the horse in its stall. He patted its smooth red shoulder, checked to see that there was grain in the trough and water in the bucket.

  He had to walk back around the cabin to reach the door. He paused at the corner and looked to the east, toward the Blue Ridge that could only dimly be seen today. Like the sky and the surface of the river, the mountains seemed not blue but gray. Sky, mountain, and river blended one into the other so that ends and beginnings no longer meant anything, at least not from a distance. It was only up close that such distinctions were important.

  Davis pulled the latch string and opened the door. He heard laughter as he stepped inside. Andrew must have said something funny, because Laurel and Theodore were laughing. Even Faith was smiling, an expression Davis saw but seldom on his wife these days. Only Mary didn't seem amused. She sat on a three-legged stool in the corner, her features solemn. She looked so much like her mother that Davis felt a twinge of something deep in his chest, a knowledge of how Faith must have been when she was a child.

  The only difference was that, when she was a child, Faith Larrimore had worn fine dresses and spent her days in the big house on the Tidewater plantation her father owned. Mary had to settle for homespun and this log cabin her father had built with an ax and his two hands. Not that the girl complained.

  "Hello, Davis," Andrew said with a grin. "How's old Bristow?"

  "Mending," Davis said.

  "I've been meaning to get down to his place and lend him a hand. I'll do that next week."

  Davis grunted and nodded. H
e doubted that Andrew would even go near Bristow's farm.

  The air inside the cabin was filled with the smell of stew cooking in the big iron pot suspended over the low flames in the fireplace, blended with the sweet tang of Andrew's tobacco. His pipe was out now, tucked into the pocket of his leather vest, but obviously he had been smoking it earlier. Andrew was sitting on one of the benches beside the rough-hewn table, so Davis sat down opposite him.

  There was little resemblance between them. Davis took after his father Michael, with features carved out as roughly as the table at which he now sat. Andrew had the finer looks of the mother they shared.

  Michael Hallam had come from Ireland to this land when it was still only a gathering of British colonies with a toehold on the vast, unknown continent. When he died, his widow Lydia had married Henry Paxton and in due course had borne him a son. Andrew had her darker hair and her slender build, too. Not many people would take Davis and Andrew for relatives, especially not a blood bond as close as it really was.

  Davis took his own pipe from his pocket and placed it on the table, but he did not reach for his tobacco pouch. Instead he toyed with the stem of the briar and didn't look as he said, "What are you doing here, Andrew?"

  Faith was stirring the stew. The ladle rattled against the iron pot as she said, "That's not a very friendly way to talk to your brother, Davis."

  "Oh, I think it was a perfectly innocent question," Andrew said with a smile. "Wasn't it, Davis?"

  "Just wondering," Davis said. "Takes a lot of work to get a farm ready for planting, 'specially a new place. Ever since Andrew came to the Shenandoah Valley last fall, he's spent as much time over here as he has on his own land."

  Faith said quickly, "Not that we mind, Andrew. We certainly don't. We enjoy your company, don't we, children?"

  "Uncle Andrew tells the best stories," Laurel said, and Theodore echoed her.

  Davis finally took out his tobacco pouch, opened it, and began to pack the rough-cut Virginia blend into the bowl. "You're welcome here any time, Andrew," he said. "You know that. But I'd be glad to help out on your farm if you're having trouble getting ready for spring."

  "No trouble at all," Andrew said easily.

  "Well, just remember what I said."

  Davis tried not to frown. He felt Faith's eyes on him, watching him.

  He got up, took a glowing sliver of wood from the fire, and lit his pipe. By the time he had smoked it, Faith had a bowl of stew and a wooden spoon on the table in front of him. She served Andrew next, then the children and finally herself. Davis ate sullenly, barely able to conceal the resentment he felt. When he was finished, he stood up and said, "I'm going out to the barn to repair that plow."

  "Need any help?" Andrew asked.

  Davis shook his head and went to the door. He picked up his hat and put it on before he went out.

  A fine mist had begun to drift from the gray sky, coming down so intermittently that it was almost as if God was dropping a handful of rain at a time. Davis walked around the cabin and went to the barn again. It was dim inside the barn, the only light coming from the gaps Davis had left between some of the logs to allow more air to circulate. After a moment, his eyes adjusted and the light was enough for him to see what he was doing. Some strips of rawhide were hanging from pegs driven between the logs of the wall. Davis took one of them, slipped his knife from the sheath on his belt, and began cutting the rawhide into shorter lengths. He would tie them around the joints of the plow that had begun to weaken. Once spring arrived and the weather warmed up, the rawhide bindings would shrink and tighten until they were almost as strong as iron.

  He had been working at his task for about half an hour when he heard a horse leaving, the hoofbeats soft and muffled in the light rain. That would be Andrew going home. Ten minutes later, the barn door opened with barely a whisper of sound. Faith came in.

  "You treated Andrew horribly," she said. "He's going to think you don't want him here."

  Davis looked up from his work. She stood between him and the door she had left open. He saw swirls of moisture drifting around her. She had to be getting wet, but she was too angry to care.

  When her hair was damp it drew up into tight curls that floated around her shoulders. Davis had always thought she was especially lovely like that. Now, however, there was a frown on her fine-boned face, and though he couldn't make out the expression in her blue eyes, he knew it was not a happy one.

  He said, "Andrew doesn't care whether I want him here or not . . . so long as you do."

  Faith's shoulders lifted a little as her back stiffened. "What do you mean by that?"

  "Just what I said. It's you he comes to see, not me."

  "Don't be ridiculous. He's your brother."

  "Half-brother," Davis said. "And we were never close. I hadn't seen him in five years when he showed up here last fall and said he'd taken up a claim on that land east of here."

  "He adores the children—"

  "Then why did I find them playing outside, in the cold damp wind, when I got back from Bristow's place?"

  "Andrew and I were talking," Faith said. "The children were bored. It was their idea to go outside."

  Somehow Davis doubted that, but saying so would not have done any good. He looked down at the plow again and went back to what he had been doing.

  After a moment, Faith asked, "You don't believe me, do you?"

  "Doesn't matter if I do or not."

  "Why don't you just go ahead and accuse me, if that's what you want to do?"

  "Never said I wanted to accuse you of anything."

  Faith took a step toward him, lifted her hands as if she wanted to either reach out to him or strike him, then dropped them at her sides again where they hung, pale smudges in the shadows like her face.

  "We all might be better off if you spoke more, Davis," she said. "A person might as well be gazing off at the Blue Ridge as to look at your face. There's no way of telling what's on the other side."

  His fingers tightened on the plow handle. "The mountains tell a story . . . if you know where to look."

  "If you know what you're looking for," Faith said. She sighed, shook her head. Then she turned and walked out of the barn, pulling the door closed behind her. Davis had to let his eyes adjust to the dimness again.

  Then he went back to work on the plow.

  Faith was quiet at supper, and the children were subdued as well, even the normally boisterous Theodore. Davis didn't really taste the venison and potatoes, even though Faith had cooked them with wild onions.

  The mist had turned into rain, and in the silence Davis thought he could hear each drop striking the roof of the cabin. The wind had picked up as well. It found its way into the cabin somehow, making the flames in the fireplace tremble like the fingers of an old, old man.

  As soon as the meal was over, Faith worked with Mary and Laurel on their letters and ciphering while Theodore used his piece of board and a lump of charcoal to draw pictures. Davis sat at the table; as he smoked, he watched them and listened to the wind and rain. He could hear the strain in Faith's voice. Davis knew that Mary could hear it as well, but Laurel didn't seem to notice.

  It wasn't that common for a woman to be able to read and write, let alone do sums, but Faith's father, old Hammond Larrimore, had hired a tutor for his daughter and provided the best education he could. Faith was an only child, and, with the profits from his huge tobacco plantation, Hammond and his wife Cornelia had given her everything that their money could buy.

  And then, to hear Hammond tell it, Faith had thrown it all away by marrying a poor Irish lad who wanted nothing more than to till the earth and earn a living from his efforts. Worse still, once Davis and Faith were married, he had dragged her off to what Hammond and Cornelia considered a God-forsaken wilderness, leaving the Tidewater behind to live on a farm in the Shenandoah Valley.

  But for more than a decade, Faith had been happy . . . or at least she had seemed to be. Until Andrew came, with his expensive cl
othes and his tales of having lived in Boston and Philadelphia and Charleston and Savannah and Richmond. Andrew, handsome Andrew with his stories and his jokes, who was everything his brother was not and never could be.

  Davis's teeth clamped down tightly on his pipe and he told himself to stop thinking such thoughts. They were sly, though, stealing into his head like a fox or a raccoon into a chicken house, then striking without warning.

  When the evening's lessons were done, Faith said, "Up to the loft with the three of you now." Theodore groaned about being sent to bed, as he always did, but within a few minutes the children had climbed up the ladder to the loft where they slept.

  Faith came over to the table and sat down across from Davis. He didn't want to look at her, but when she said his name he turned to her. She said, "Things can't go on like this."

  He felt as if he might have taken a chill. He wiped the back of his hand across his nose and said, "What would you have me do? Step aside so that Andrew can have you?"

  "How can you say such a thing? And keep your voice down. The children are still awake."

  "They'd be happy with Andrew for a father."

  "You shouldn't talk like that."

  "You said I didn't talk enough. Now you don't like what I say."

  She sighed. Her eyes were moist as she reached across the table. She touched his hand. Davis didn't pull away from her fingers.

  "Things change, Davis, and once they have, they can never again be the way they were. But they can be just as good. You don't have to throw everything away, all the years . . ."

  "I'm not the one doing that," he said.

  Her fingers twined in his. "Please, Davis. Don't think the things you've been thinking."

  Maybe he had been wrong. He wanted to believe that. Faith stood up, still holding his hand, and he rose with her like a drowning man pulled from the waters of the Shenandoah. She came around the table and into his arms. Her lips were sweet and warm as she kissed him. The fingertips of her other hand, cool and sweet, touched his cheek. He leaned toward her. The desire that sprang up in him, the need for her, astonished him with its strength.